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Drawing attention to the physical disintegration of the raw material of our cultural heritage books, manuscripts, periodicals, and other documents and to the development of techniques to prevent the destruction and to preserve those materials; and The dissemination of quality programming in the humanities to increasingly large American audiences through the use of radio and television.
He might have hustled a programming project, but the thought of business meetings sent him across the bridge to Crescent Beach. The air was fresh and salty, softened by the waxy smell of beach roses. Children played. Dogs chased Frisbees. Waves curled and crashed along the sand. In September, in Maine, time has a way of crystallizing and standing still. Oliver soaked up the sunny shortening days.
If I make a good drawing or painting, then what I've got to frame it and beg some gallery owner to sell it for fifty percent of not much? Frig that. It's not like I'm a frustrated genius." "Just frustrated," Oliver said. "Look who's talking. Maybe you ought to forget programming and set up a cabinet shop." "Maybe," Oliver said. "Speaking of frustrated," Mark said, "how are the ladies?"
Betty 3-RC-VIII, secret, wife-style model, the highest development of the art of Robotics had known instantly when Ben cut the Old Man's switch. She had half expected it. But it made her headache worse. "But damn my programming!" She spoke abruptly, aloud, nervously fingering the locket around her neck. "Damn it and shift circuit. He's right! He is my husband and he is right and I'm glad.
Well, I learned enough to be able to operate, program and service any computer in existence, and train assistants. During my last year at the University, I had a part-time paid job programming the big positron-neutrino-photon computer in the astrophysics department. When I graduated, I was offered a position as instructor in positronic computer theory."
Oliver followed, seeing a can of coconut milk and a smaller can of Thai curry paste. Basil, a bit of chicken, green beans, rice . . . He was almost out of shoyu, but that wouldn't matter with a curry. Tomorrow he would get shoyu. And more veggies. Jennifer was strong on veggies. Oliver concentrated on programming. He found and successfully changed the late messages.
Bart knew, with a cold chill, that the missing Klanerol had not simply gone "on the drift." No Lhari port would ever see Klanerol, Second Class Astrogator, again. "Bartol," mused the captain, riffling the forged papers. "Served on the Polaris run. Hm you are a good long way off your orbit, aren't you? Never been out that way myself. All right, I'll take you on. You can do system programming? Good.
Oliver had a strong visual sense that had never found a satisfactory outlet. His work had always been secondary in some way. Teaching math and programming had kept him going, but he felt unused, wasted. Maybe he should have been an architect. At least, now, he knew where his visual ability came from. Oliver mused over his drink and avoided opening the envelope in his pocket.
"I quit programming," Joe said. "It was burning out my brain. I never much liked it anyway." "I know what you mean," Jason said. "How did you get into the info game?" "One thing leads to another," he said. "You pitch in, give a hand, go with the flow." He expanded as he talked. His jaw was set as he carved into his Mauna Kea, half a papaya beneath eruptions of granola, fruit, and yogurt.
Centralized control. No more local programming. Bye, bye, Oliver." He waved his glass. "Bye, bye," Emma said. Jennifer hugged her. "I'm about done now, really. A couple of reports, one more operating system revision . . . I'm a little sad about it. It's surprising how you get to like people. I mean, the Fundamentalists are nutso with all their rules, but they do a lot of good.
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